


The Cliffs of Hell - A Stone Carvers Additional Chapter

by SirFancyPantaloons



Category: The Stone Carvers - Urquhart
Genre: Angst, Battle of Vimy Ridge, Blood, Canada, Canadian, Canadian Literature, Feels, Gen, Gore, Graphic Depictions of War, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Description of Dismemberment, Graphic Description of Injury, Graphic Violence, Jane Urquhart, Sad, Sorry Ms. Young, The Stone Carvers, Vimy Ridge, Vimy Ridge Memorial, Viscera, WW1, War, War is hell, War violence, World War One, english project, like really sad, mention of amputation, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirFancyPantaloons/pseuds/SirFancyPantaloons
Summary: We as readers only know that Eamon's body was never found. What really happened during his last moments in battle?-Written for Ms. Young's Gr. 12 English class, by Clarice Mosicki...I'm sorry miss.





	The Cliffs of Hell - A Stone Carvers Additional Chapter

_April 10th, 1917. Vimy Ridge, France._

A blast sounded off from Eamon's right, knocking him onto his face into the cold, damp mud. He quickly but wearily pushed himself up onto his elbows and knees, just barely taking in his surroundings after the near-death experience. A scream of agony to his left. Gunshots behind, in front of, and all around him. The whistle of a shell as it plummeted towards the torn-up earth below, and the deafening explosion that followed. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the pungent iron scent of blood made him gag. As he crawled desperately forward, his rifle made his movements awkward and painful. The blood, sweat, and dirt that caked his face made his eyes sting.

"GET UP, O'SULLIVAN, YER NOT DEAD YET!"

A rallying cry from his commander a short distance behind him. Eamon could barely hear it over the sounds of the battle surrounding them. Although encouraging, the command did nothing more than made him remember that he was a pawn in the brass' game. The generals, prime ministers, kings, and queens of Europe could care less whether he, the Irish farmer from the Dominion of Canada, would live or die. Eamon pushed himself up off the ground, his hands sinking into the mud up to his mid-forearms. He pushed his filthy metal helmet further up onto his forehead and continued his push towards the ridge.

A wail came from his right. He whipped his head around, only to see a young Canadian soldier lying on his back the ground, writhing in excruciating pain. His hands were stained with blood up to his forearms. His eyes were shut tight and his teeth were bared in a grimace of pain. He couldn't have been any older than 16.

His intestines were spilling out into his hands.

Eamon forced down a rising of bile from his stomach to his mouth and turned his head away. He moved forward faster and faster until he was in a dead sprint, his feet pushing into the slush of the ground. He could think of nothing but running away at this point. Running away from the battle, running away from the war, running away from the smell and sight of his dead comrades staring up into the sky with glazed-over eyes and expressions of agony.

Running back to her.

As soon as Eamon set foot onto the ship to sail for Europe, he was immediately filled with the realization of what he was doing. He felt the sharp pangs of regret and guilt. He was going off to possibly die for a country that his family taught him to hate, and he left behind the woman he loved to do it. He loved Klara with all his heart, but the argument between them before he left put a different perspective on his relationship. At that moment, Eamon didn't fully understand why Klara was so angry with him. But as he was pushed into a crowded, stinking steamer with a few hundred other men, some not even 18 years of age by the look of hope in their eyes, he finally understood.

Another shell blast resonated from a short distance behind him, and a sharp pain erupted throughout Eamon's lower back. He cried out in anguish and fell once again to his knees. The warm, wet feeling that was spreading over his lower back in all directions was evidence enough that the shrapnel from the shell had managed to hit him. He toppled over onto his back, which only sent even worse shots of pain up his spine and down his thighs. 'This is it,' he thought. 'This is where I die.' Eamon looked up at the grey, clouded sky above him, and thought back on his life. Thought back on the life he could have had. His vision went blurry and his head pounded. The sounds of the battle around him seemed to become muffled and quiet. Suddenly, a feeling of strong hands lifting him onto a lap brought him back to the present.

His head rested on the soldier's filthy combat pants. He looked up at the man above him, still in a daze, and his vision focusing in and out. His heart leapt for a moment when he realized how familiar this soldier's face was. The way his nose upturned slightly and the distinctive shape and colour of his eyes. The agony of his wound made his head and vision swim before him as he felt the life draining out of him faster and faster. Images in front of him and memories of his past flashed back and forth.

A midsummer's swim.

Rain starting to fall on the ridge.

Wrapping his arms around a young woman's waist in her kitchen.

The face of the man holding him, the look of desperation and hopelessness on his face as he was powerless to save the life he had in his arms.

The memories and sights started to blur more as he died. Eamon looked up at his comrade one more time, his face hazy and slowly getting darker and darker. Through his pain, he still felt the nagging feeling of familiarity. It was too uncanny to ignore. His memories and vision were now almost indistinguishable. He gave a tortured breath in and muttered...

"Klara?"

\---

Tilman looked down at O'Sullivan's head in his lap, his eyes now clouded over with death as his body gave one last shudder, then grew steadily colder. He couldn't stop shaking. Hot tears started streaming down his grimy face. His breathing became rapid, shallow, and ragged. Why was his comrade's last word his sister's name? Had he known his sister after he ran away? Did he think that Tilman was Klara? He slowly pushed Eamon's head off his lap and made the sign of the cross, his hands violently trembling. He stood up, his knees nearly buckling underneath him, threatening to plunge him down onto the cold ground again.

"BECKER, LOOK OUT!"

The harsh bark of his commander's voice brought Tilman back to the battle around him, and he scrambled forward as the whistle of a shell grew louder behind him. The roar of the explosion ripped throughout every orifice and bone of his body as he was thrown forward by the blast like a ragdoll and onto his face. Mud, rocks, and viscera rained down. He choked and gagged on the thick mud that caked his nose and mouth, the tang of blood shining through. Sharp jets of pain erupted from his leg, like thousands of tiny bullet holes down his thigh. He didn't get far away enough, shrapnel was now embedded deep into his leg. A sudden sense of dread came over him like a crashing wave. He moved his leg. He tried to move his foot. No sensation. Fiery pain shot through his thigh, and hot blood spurted from the cut-off at his knee. His leg from the calf down had been completely blown off. Only his thigh upwards remained, and it was filled with shrapnel. The frightening thought of amputation crossed his mind before he dismissed it. He was much more likely to die first. Tilman wiped his eyes of the filth that covered his face and looked behind him at where the bomb had fallen.

There was now nothing but a crater where O'Sullivan's body once laid.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story miss.
> 
> I'm sorry I made it so sad. But you said that the goal was to make you cry. Tell me if it did.


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